


Moonlight

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono and Edge attempt to cope together during the final months of recording Achtung Baby. Set in Summer of '91.





	Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, I was never here! No, I've been working on this in like little snatches these past couple of weeks, mostly as a stress reliever than anything, and then slammed out a giant chunk of it today instead of doing homework. Also, I am utterly unsure of the timeline of when Edge lived with Adam and I don't have the will to properly research it right now, so I've left it vague here :D I don't have much else to say, as I am very damn tired right now and should be in bed, but I hope y'all enjoy? Love love xx

I’m beginning to have some doubts, although I would never tell you that. They’re not about you, nor us, but myself. Mostly life matters, but of course you fit into that in your own special way.

Who knows, maybe I might even invite you along for the ride when I eventually cave in and buy that sports car I’m told all men must purchase at some point in their life. We’d have a world of fun, you and me, out there on the open road. Unless I’m the one behind the wheel.

There’s a word starting with _f_ that you associate with my driving, sure, but _fun_? Definitely not.

“What do we do now?” you’d asked me in early February after the plane had touched down and we’d enjoyed that first cleansing breath of Dublin air. But what you really had wanted to know was what _your_ next move was.

I’d had a plan in place, after all. A home to return to, a wife and one point five children, give or take a couple of months. And what did you have?

Oh love, you could conduct electricity with the amount of tension life has instilled into your body over the past couple of years. But instead of doing that and becoming a scientific marvel, you thought to try your luck on a road not-quite-yet travelled at the time.

Since then, that path has become well-worn, hasn’t it? You’ve received enough appreciation to keep you going like a banshee in the studio, in the sack, yet only sometimes during those quiet moments you once made your own.

“More?” you’d parroted back at me one night after I’d expressed a wish or two. “B, you have no idea . . . you have helped. _This_ helps, believe me.”

See, when you say things like that I do buy into it, only to wonder later, and now, whether I’m the right man for the job. Surely it can’t be enough, this business between us, to colour your world like it once was?

You don’t pick up that phone as much as I think you should, and why is that? I was awake most of last night pondering this, among other things, though you definitely were not the only thing keeping me from falling into a fucking coma.

The search for caffeine is my sole purpose in life when I reach the studio. From the looks of it, we share a common goal. It’s only after we’ve obtained our liquid gold that you find it in yourself to give me a once-over that is both critical and apathetic at the same time. “Have you slept at all this decade?”

“I’m a rock star, Edge,” I say, a reply that has proven to be as versatile as a plain black tee.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure rock stars still need to sleep. Unless they’re doing a shitload of drugs.” You pause to squint before adding, “Are you doing a shitload of drugs?”

“Ask my accountant.”

“Fair enough.”

I don’t get to properly study you until we are in a room filled with noise and movement. Generally, you astound me with your stillness but this morning it worries me. When was the last time _you_ slept? That’s not a question I’m allowed to ask anymore, but you can’t keep me from thinking it.

When you do finally glance up at me to faintly smile, a question on your lips that goes unprocessed, I immediately recognize that look in your eye. As always, you’re proving to be a fine specimen of a man who has no idea he is in search of a lifeline, not yet, anyway.

It will hit you eventually. Usually it does, though not always and rarely in full. What will it be this time? Just that gnawing sense of _something is needed_? Or are we dealing with absolutes, operating on a deeper level that may require a different me, one who last existed in, say, June?

“Did you hear what I said?”

“No,” is my vague and only response, eliciting a frown from you, and then a sigh.

“Come with me.”

Recent events have shown that you dragging me off to a bathroom means both our lives are going to change for the next few minutes or so, but I have my doubts about that being on the cards for us today. Especially when you veer us left down the hallway instead of right, leading us out into the blinding sunlight.

“Jesus, warn a man next time. I would have brought my sunglasses.”

“They’re in your pocket,” you say. And so they are. I put them on, hold out my hand when you instruct me to do so, but clamp my fingers shut when I see what is on offer. Well, aren’t you the sneaky one? “Bono, come on.”

“We’re in the middle of creating an album, you know.”

“I’m well aware, but—”

“No, fuck off. What, you think because we . . .” I trail off, a distant car horn reminding me of where we are just in time. Bringing me out in public, well played. You twat. “If you think you have the right to start dictating my life, then go for it. But I’ll be doing the same for you, Edge, just know that.”

“Fine by me,” you say with a shrug. “I trust you, and know you only have my best interests in mind. It does come as a surprise that you don’t think the same of me, though. I thought we might have been on equal ground after all these years, but apparently not.”

Fucking hell, you really are a crafty little bastard, aren’t you? I like to pride myself on being astute during any conversation that life throws my way, and yet time and time again you’ve managed to completely stump me.

Not knowing what else to do, I take my car keys from you, but pocket them instead of complying to the suggestion being made.

“We are on equal ground.”

“Then take the day off.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been fucking useless these past few days.”

“Wow,” I say, flinging a hand to my chest like I’m some distraught dame, though admittedly a part of me is proud of you for not pulling punches. “Here I was thinking you were worried about me or something.”

“And what would your response be if I were to admit that?” you ask. I merely offer you a thin-lipped smile in response, causing you to nod like you expected nothing else. “That’s what I figured. Bono, I know what it’s like, alright? It’s exhausting having two, and takes a while to adjust. Or you don’t, but have a third one anyway.”

The battle is lost. Truthfully, you’d claimed victory the moment I got up out of my chair and followed without asking why, but that’s not really something you need to hear me acknowledge. Not when you already know. But I’ll be damned if I don’t go out with a fight. Of sorts. “I think I’ve got a far easier run of it than Ali has. She’s the one with the breasts, after all.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.”

“Which part? My wife having breasts, or—”

“B—”

“Why don’t we both take the day off?” I cut in, and there it is. That smile I’ve been waiting to see.

As is often the case these days, it doesn’t last, yet there is still a hint of it in your voice as you say, “No, that’s a terrible idea. One of us has to be here, otherwise Adam and Larry might think we’re conspiring against them.”

“That’s not what I was suggesting.”

“I know. It’s still a no, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I think you’ll see me before then.”

“I better not,” you mutter, apparently confident we both can hold out that long. I watch as you do a finer job of walking backwards then I ever could, and then just like that, I find myself alone yet still thinking about you.

Those hands of yours, those nimble fingers—how the hell did I miss them snatching away my keys?

 

* * *

 

The phone call comes only after the hurricane is over, right when I was about to give up hope.

“I know it’s a big ask,” you quietly say, certain of what you’re requesting but unsure of yourself. A different man to the one that kicked me out and abandoned me only this morning. And you say _I’m_ the changeable one. “But are you free?”

The girls are finally asleep, Ali has collapsed in our bed looking like an absolute angel, and that burning feeling beneath my eyelids tells me I should join her. “Of course I am.”

I scribble out a note, holding up my end of the bargain before locking up and fleeing into the night. The drive feels like it takes only seconds, and I’m admittedly a little flabbergasted as I crawl out of my car, wondering how the fuck I even got here.

What happened between home and now? Anything and nothing, potentially.

Who knows, I could have killed a man, left him for dead, and wouldn’t find out until the morning. But that’s a problem for tomorrow, thank Christ.

The front door is unlocked, the lights muted. I do a cursory search before heading back out into the night air. You’re exactly where I imagined you to be, tucked away around the back of the house, a drink in one hand, smoke in the other. You don’t see me, not at first. No, it’s the night sky that holds your attention as I shuffle your way. I’m fairly certain I’ve had this exact scene play out in front of me before, my own little film noir come to life.

It’s the moon that has you, I’m sure. And how could I not come back again and again, knowing what I know?

I can close my eyes and transport us both back to that night on the beach, the moonlight causing our conversation to turn philosophical in nature, taking us from astronomy to autonomy to the history of mankind, the reason for it all. Peace, love, understanding and sex—what else could compare? And what else could you lose?

Not me, though still you’d hesitated, taking the time to become curiously acquainted with my hand, your dainty fingers brushing the sand from my damp palm, before turning my world upside down. And I’d almost told you no, I’d wanted to say yes, fear and excitement working in tandem until something had to give, and you’d brought my inner Molly Bloom to life like the sorcerer that you are, _yes I will Yes_. But when it was over I’d found you looking as anxious as you ever had, your eyes pleading _don’t leave_.

I’d stayed.

My doubts come and go, fluctuating with my moods, but not once have I found myself regretting that kiss.

You’re not the only one who needs this. Do you realize that?

I think you do. There’s a hint of knowing in your exhausted smile when you finally come back down to earth.

“Well, you’re a sorry sight, aren’t you?” I say, angling for a laugh. Instead, you frown at me as if you just discovered I’m terminal.

“Speak for yourself. You alright?”

“When have I ever answered no to that question?”

“I can remember a few times, although you did it without saying a word.”

“Spend a lot of time lookin’ into my soul, huh?”

Another smile, this one tighter than the last. Wordlessly, you slide that second glass along the table until it cannot be ignored a moment longer. I take the invitation, settling back in the wicker chaise I’ve come to think of as my own. Tonight, it may very well prove to be the end of me, although I hope I last long enough to experience you dealing the final blow. I could curl up right now, give in to that incessant voice in the back of my head demanding its needs be met. But that’s not what I really want.

One look from you is enough. I would happily abandon my chair tonight, and forget all about sleeping, if you let me. 

“Rough night?”

It’s a frankly stupid question, one that I dismiss with the wave of a hand. “Ah, come on, walk in the park.” I expect you to grin, or shake your head, or give me at least some reaction. Instead, you just continue attempting to set me alight with that stare of yours, and after a few agonising seconds, I relent. “I’m thrilled to announce that Evie is taking after her da, Edge. Wants to party all night, she does, while Jordan is like Ali, just—”

“Tackling the day like it’s hers for the keep?”

“You know it. Interesting combo, that.”

“Mmm.” You take a thoughtful drag of your cigarette before adding, “We’ve been saying that for years.”

“And yet . . .”

“It works.”

”It does,” I confirm, shrugging. “Somehow.”

A curious expression appears on your face as you watch me light up. It’s not quite a smile, nor a frown, but something that I soon recognize. Oh love, are you really going to attempt that with me again?

“I shouldn’t have called,” you say, confirming my suspicions.

“Too bad, I’m here now.”

It shuts you up far quicker than it ever has in the past. Have I finally worn you down? Or are we both just too wrecked for unnecessary bullshit? I guess I’ll never know for sure, as I’m not _quite_ insecure enough to question your every reaction to me—though some days I’ve come close—and it doesn’t occur to you to offer up an explanation unless asked. But somehow, we’ve made it this far in life without throttling each other. It shouldn’t work, and yet . . .

You’re more like her then you realize, and I wish I could be larger than life for you both, instead of just one man.

For a while we simply smoke in silence, you back contemplating the sky, me distracting myself with a different view.

“Edge,” I say once you’ve stubbed out your second cigarette and emptied your glass, “talk to me.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that kind of night.”

I finish off my own smoke, keeping my reaction neutral. No one likes a smug git, after all, even if that smug git had seen such a response coming a mile off. “Alright.”

More silence. You remain perfectly patient as you watch me drink my warm wine, while I’m tempted to flip the table between us and make some noise. At the very least, doing so would breathe some life back into the moment. It might even make you laugh, when you’re finally done calling me a few choice names, that is.

Wanker, fucking eejit, the main reason for premature balding—I’ve heard them all.

However, none of that looks to be in the cards for us tonight. I quietly finish my drink, glass clinking against glass as I set it back down. It’s the only sound I can bring myself to make.

“B,” you say. “Please. Come here.”

I don’t have to be told twice.

Sometimes, I think this is what you miss the most, the warmth and weight of another body against you. And if it makes you happy, if it allows you to feel whole throughout the night, then I will gladly come to you as much as I can. Hell, I’d even attempt to lasso the moon if that’s what it takes.

I can’t be your wife, but at least I can still make you sigh like you are right now. And it’s so hard to scare away the doubt once it’s been welcomed past the threshold, but during moments such as this I think we’re both able to come out on top. Maybe it _is_ enough.

 I let you readjust me until we are both as comfortable as we’re going to get. Do you know just how much I enjoy this? That I’ve spent hours wondering why that is?

It’s not shame that keeps me up at night when I think back, however. No, it’s fascination, plain and simple, served with a side of bemusement for good measure.

There was a moment or two, that first time, when my fragile ego allowed me to wonder whether I would be left feeling emasculated by you wrapping your arms around me. Instead, I felt the complete opposite.

 _What have you done?_ I want to ask you at least once a fortnight. _This was never meant to be about me. Where do you get off making me feel all empowered and shit when it’s_ you _who we’re supposed to be fixing?_

I say your name, simply because it’s all I know how to do sometimes. You respond by stroking my back, soothing me like I’m some kind of restless animal. Of course, you know exactly what you’re doing.

It’s a type of repetitiveness that I shy away from—hate, really—when coming from anybody who isn’t Ali, or you, or my mother, once upon a time. Mostly, it's a blank slate that I work with these days, those few years I had with her, but I do remember this.

How I could forget? A different touch, a similar intent, _there’s nothing to worry about, love, go back to sleep. I’m right here_. The comforting weight of that thick, scratchy blanket, a gentle hand against my back, the warmth of your body . . .

“I can’t remember the last time the sky was so clear here,” you say, maybe a minute later, maybe more. An hour? Is it still Wednesday?

. . . was it even Wednesday to begin with?

“Mmm?” I reply, as articulate as ever. Sadly, it’s all I have left in me right now.

“Not a single cloud.”

“In Ireland?”

“Uh huh, that is where we currently are, B.” You sound far more amused than I would prefer you to be right now, although I can’t be too mad about it. It’s far better than the alternative.

“I know that, dickhead, I was trying to be witty.”

“Keep trying. You might get there one day.”

“Oh, I will, long before you do.”

“I can’t argue that and win,” you say, following with a sigh that I don’t quite believe. “Go on then, what were you going to say before I ruined it?”

“I was going to say, before you fucking ruined it, that we are due for our annual day without rain,” I say, well aware that I sound like a petulant child. And there it is, that quiet laugh of yours. One of the few things I’m always, _always_ hoping to hear wherever I go. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Edge, next year we might get . . . what’s the opposite of a drought?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t need to," I insist, feeling almost confident it's the truth, "I’m a man reborn.”

You don’t laugh again, but I can tell, even without glancing up, that you’re still somewhat amused. In the silence that follows, your fingers find my hair and begin working out the knots. What is your obsession with the mop on top of my head? Is it adoration or a general frustration with the status of my grooming whenever we meet?

Knowing you, it’s a mixture of both.

Never change, love, you deserve to be venerated just as you are.

Our last few encounters were frantic and brief, tightly nestled in between the happenings of life, work and a bizarre mishmash of the two. Tonight, however, I don’t think you could rush me even if you wanted to. Thankfully, you don’t seem to have any intention of doing so.

You smile—a real smile, not that grim bullshit I’ve seen too much of recently—when I lift my head to look at you for the first time in what feels like fucking hours, and remain your usual patient self until I get a clue and shuffle up to make my move. And just as I hoped, there’s no urgency in you. Although it’ll come later, I’m sure, and when it does, you bet I’ll already be close to begging for it.

But for now, this is it, and it is exactly what I need, no, what we _both_ need. It’s just like you to always know, isn’t it? One hand in my hair, the other trailing _slooowly_ down my back, dedicated to eventually landing on its chosen target, though not yet anxious enough to start rushing. And it’s only when that hand finally starts its slide against black leather that our kiss goes from leisurely to something with a little more bite.

Soon enough, you whisper a suggestion in my ear, and naturally, I comply almost immediately.

The world takes a swift turn off its axis when I stand, causing you to huff out a laugh and tighten your grasp. “Let’s go slow, shall we?”

“I’m going to hold you to that, Edge.”

“Not for the entire night, I hope.”

Thanks to you, our trek back to the house is painfully unhurried yet still an experience. How long has that rose bush been in bloom? And when did that garden gnome appear?

“It’s been there the entire time,” you answer wryly when I raise the question. “I would have thought it was hard to miss, given that you have to walk past it to sit down, but . . .”

“What can I say?” I mutter, feeling only slightly foolish as we leave the moonlight behind. “I must have been distracted.”

Inside, you lock both doors while I tackle the curtains and attempt to turn off the outside light, failing twice before succeeding. Why there are so many light switches in this house, I’ll never understand. God help me if your next house turns out to be this much of an inconvenience, I may have to resort to walking naked through the hallway in search of the toilet, light switches be damned.

And look at that, I’m already thinking about our future. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

“What’s on your mind, B?”

“Real estate.”

You pause, although you don’t look that bemused by my response. “I was hoping for something a little more erotic, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Somehow, I end up leading the way to your bedroom. I suspect this is due to you angling for a scenic view—that being, of course, my arse—and your wandering hand does little to change my mind. When I turn around, I expect to find you looking like the cat that got the cream; instead, you offer me a smile that could tell its own story using a multitude of chapters. You’re a complicated fellow, and yet I can still read you thoroughly when we’re in the bedroom . . . with the exception of a few missteps here and there. I know exactly what you're thinking about.

It must be a troubling thing, suddenly losing a person to care for, day in, day out. Perhaps that’s partly why you turned to me.

Maybe I am a lost cause, and I just don’t know it? Although it is promising that you haven’t yet given up on me. Is it possible that I’m not actually a handful like people say, or are you just better equipped to deal?

. . . I’m just going to pretend that both options are true.

“Are you okay?” you ask, snapping me back into action.

“I’m amazing,” I reply with the gusto of a man who hasn’t spent the past minute or so attempting to stare straight on through your wonderfully-shaped skull.

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” You pause, looking me up and down. “But yes, you are.”

“Is that flattery I hear, The Edge? Are you trying to make me blush?”

You could easily play along and waste some more time, but you don’t. It’s probably for the best, although I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed. “Will you get on the bed, please?”

“Sure thing.”

As is generally the case, my compliance pleases you to no end. I cannot for the life of me imagine why that is. Way I see it, I’m always a good boy.

“Just lie back,” you needlessly instruct as I do exactly that. “I’ve got this under control.”

“Excuse me, I came here with the impression that I was taking care of _you_ tonight.”

And just like that, your expression changes, going from sweet to serious as you look down at me. “You are.”

What can I say to that? Nothing, as it turns out, though you don’t seem to mind. I think you enjoy it when I use my mouth for something other than talking. Actually, scrap that, I _know_ you do. All it takes it one little kiss, and then a few more, to bring fun back into the equation.

It’s how it should be, and not only because we are so damn good at it. You deserve such a distraction. Me? I’m just happy to come along for the ride.

“I cannot believe you’re wearing leather pants on your day off,” you say once we’re both shirtless. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“You, of course. Although I actually put them on because the yard needed raking.”

Curiously, you seem surprised to hear this.  “And they . . . help the process?”

“No, but at least I look _gooood_.”

You manage to bite back your laughter, but only just, before grumbling, “I’d be more impressed if I didn’t have to fucking fight to get you naked.”

“Well, I could do it myself, if you wanted.”

“No, you know I . . .” you trail off, shaking your head at your own discomfort. We’re well past feeling embarrassed about expressing what we like, and you know it. “I enjoy it. Undressing you, I mean.”

“Then stop complaining.”

“I feel as though you like making it harder for me, is all.”

“Think of it like a present, Edge,” I suggest, causing you to roll your eyes. “Sometimes it can be a struggle to peel off all that tape, but in the end it’s totally worth your while.”

“Not always. There’s only so many pairs of socks a person can receive before they go a little crazy.”

“You’re lying, you can never have too many socks.”

“Tell that to my sock drawer,” you counter, and then lose what little composure you have left. Of course, I can’t keep the smile off my face as I watch you laugh, a different kind of warmth flooding through my body then what is usually felt when I’m in your bed.

Perhaps one day I might find the courage to admit to you why I was so quick to say yes that night on the beach, and you’ll, in turn, offer your own explanations.

Until then, however, this will have to do. These quiet moments where I imagine we couldn’t be any more obvious, even if we did open our mouths to start a dialogue. Your laughter slowly fades into a familiar little smile that does me in every fucking time, holding my gaze as you busy yourself once more with my maddening pants.

It’s a funny thing, doubt. Tomorrow I might wake up and restart the whole process, wondering this, that and so much more. But how could I not come back again and again, knowing what I know?

How could I ever say no to you? And why would I want to?

It takes one kiss, and then another, to drag my attention back to where it’s fucking supposed to be. The amount of overthinking I’ve been doing recently . . .

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were rubbing off on me. I suppose you are right now, in a sense, yet not nearly as hard as you could. No, it’s a slow grind against my leg, a gentle palm sliding along my stomach. You sigh into my neck like our positions are reversed, although right now I wouldn’t have it any other way.

To be honest, I’d be more than happy to stay like this for a good twenty minutes, maybe more. With a few slight adjustments, I could even fall asleep this way, and I doubt you'd be that shocked or upset. Who cares about sex, anyway, besides you, and me, and me again, on basically every day that ends in _y_? Still, this is nice until the urge kicks in. The full weight of your body is just enough to keep me stupidly alert, while your warmth tries to drag me to another time and place entirely.

It has to end, of course. But when you do sit back to look at me exactly as you did that first night on the beach, I am still able to see the moonlight in your eyes.


End file.
